


Someone to last your whole life

by hippocrates460



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Mystrade, Getting Together, M/M, Soulmates AU, Though not at first, Where Greg and Mycroft are both very sweet and very in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:22:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22736386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460/pseuds/hippocrates460
Summary: "There was something better in life than this rubbish, if only he could get to it—love—nobility—big spaces where passion clasped peace, spaces no science could reach, but they existed for ever, full of woods some of them, and arched with majestic sky and a friend..." E.M. ForsterBeta'd byTheSoupDragon- thank you endlessly, you've helped me so much.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 68
Kudos: 235
Collections: Mystrade Soulmates Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Or as Sherlock would say, before he learns of the difference between bravery and stupidity: "But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things."

Detective Inspector Gregory James Lestrade is not a stupid man. He has however, on several occasions, done stupid things. One example of such an event is his marriage to a woman whose desires in life ran so obviously perpendicular to his own. He had willingly attempted to give her the family she so desperately craved, but had also given in rather quickly when she had decided a lawyer from Swindon would be better suited to the position of her husband. Judging by their ever-expanding brood, it seems to Greg that they were either more enthusiastic in their attempts, or something might be genuinely wrong with him, as she had so often suggested.

Another example of a stupid thing he had done, according to his mother at least, was to join the police force. Being clever had gained him a well-respected position at a rather rapid rate, but his brother (a lawyer, though not from Swindon) would forever be worthy of greater respect. 

His latest example - Greg thinks, as he sets his hand against the door of the swaying cab to stop himself from tumbling over as it hits something he’d rather not think about - might be the stupidest yet. He has been struggling to solve a case that he would normally ask for Holmes’ advice on, but unfortunately Holmes has disappeared and is presumed dead. Greg knows better than to consider anything without a body he’s seen himself to be final, but he also knows better than to suggest Holmes might still be alive, especially to Watson. 

Watson has not been coping with Holmes’ absence well, as should have been evident from the state of the room his girl led Lestrade to when he’d called. And so Greg had been chased from the house above the clinic by Watson’s famous temper. He still hears the names he’s been called ringing in his ears. Really, he should have gone to Mrs Hudson first anyway. 

The cab stops, and Lestrade climbs out. Mrs Hudson opens the door herself, and lets him in with her usual fussing. “They’re not here of course,” she says, assuming he’s hoping to see Watson, or Holmes even. Her eyes are a bit red but otherwise steady. “Can’t have  _ guests _ there, can I now?”

“The kitchen will do,” Lestrade offers, aiming for gentle, and feeling relieved when she seems to appreciate the suggestion. At least it is only Watson that wants him out and away and never to be seen again. 

“There,” Mrs Hudson offers, when she’s fetched him tea and some biscuits. “Now tell us, what brings you here?”

“Well - a case,” Lestrade says. He isn’t quite sure what else to say. “Do you have new lodgers?” Perhaps Holmes’ almanacs are still upstairs. It’d take weeks to sort through them surely, but it’s more of a lead than he has now.

“No, no,” she says. “The rooms are… well, they’ll not be let out to anyone else, that’s certain.”

“You do not need the income?” Lestrade says before he can stop himself.

“Oh,” she looks away with something that might be shame, and he opens his mouth to apologise. “I’m sure it’s alright for you to know. It’s that - well, Mr Holmes, the brother of our Mr Holmes, he pays me to keep them in order.”

“Mm,” says Lestrade, knowing she’ll understand that to mean  _ must be well off then _ and everything else he couldn’t say out loud without being rude. He’s heard of him, but nothing nice. “Is he, this brother, is he like Holmes?”

“Oh very,” she says, a happy glint in her eyes, “though you wouldn’t say it at first perhaps, and neither of them would be happy to hear it at all!”

She provides him with an address, a club he’s heard of but never had the need to enter. Leaves him with plenty of advice, as well as some food to take home. He is grateful for it, so much so he promises her he’ll check up on Watson now and again. He shouldn’t have done that, but it makes her smile so gratefully that he thinks she may have been met by the same fiery discontentment as he had.

Mr Holmes, the elder, is sitting in a room that apparently he is allowed to speak in, surrounded by books and letters and glinting decanters. He is large, in posture and stature and presence, but nothing at all like how Sherlock or John or even Mrs Hudson had described him. Not a ‘vat of frigid whale blubber’, nor a ‘mean beady-eyed beast’ and also not quite a ‘terrifying imposition on the atmosphere of the room’. Lestrade allows himself a brief moment of amusement for how Mrs Hudson was the closest to correct. Maybe if this doesn’t work he’ll ask her for help on the case.

“Detective Inspector,” Mr Holmes says, motioning towards a chair. Lestrade takes it, but not before shaking his hand. He feels at ease in this cluttered room, where it is warm and it smells of things he likes, like cognac and apple pie and leather. He is fascinated already.

“What brings you here?” Mr Holmes asks, and Lestrade settles into the chair further.

“You’ll stop me if I’m boring you,” he says, then he tells the whole story. He is interrupted only with requests for clarifications and feels strangely compelled to speak his mind, to speculate, trusting Mr Holmes to sort through the information.

“It must be Mrs Livingstone,” he says, when Lestrade has finished laying out his thoughts. 

“I agree,” he says. “But I have no proof and would need to speak with all parties involved before being allowed to get closer to getting any. Time might be running out.” 

“I should think so,” Mr Holmes hums thoughtfully. “Did you say the butler has his own quarters? Which floor are they on?”

“The second,” Lestrade answers, unsure of the relevance of this question. 

“Ask the maid,” Mr Holmes suggests, “the one he’s been sleeping with. She’ll tell you what you need to know.”

Lestrade can’t help but grin. He has not been insulted, there was no running about needed, and he still gets what he needs. “Amazing,” he says. He means it. Mr Holmes looks a little pleased, a little brighter, even if Lestrade wouldn’t be able to pinpoint how he knows. “How do I find out which maid he is sleeping with?” 

“Oh Detective Inspector,” Mr Holmes chides him, his lip curling in a way that belies his tone, “there must be  _ something  _ left for you to do?”

“Alright, alright,” Lestrade laughs, as he gets up. “Thank you very much for your assistance.”

“You’ll tell me how it ends, won’t you?” Mr Holmes’ strange pale eyes fix him in place. “Contact me when you’ve solved it, we’ll have dinner.”

“Indeed I shall,” Lestrade finds himself saying. He leaves the room with eagerness. A sense of anticipation. 

He never knows what his mother thinks about something until she tells it to the other ladies at church. The stranger the story is, the further from the truth, the more upset she is. She told them his wife had met her soulmate, despite Greg being fairly certain after a decade of being married to her, that she never had a mark at all. She doesn’t lie about his work, which means she must be alright with it, no matter how much she complains. Her and his da had been matched, in the respectable sort of way. They’d shaken hands at a dance at a local fair, their marks had changed colour, and from that day on they’d been steady. Neither of his siblings had marks, which Lestrade had always been a bit jealous of. Even more so when on the same day he’d gotten a beating for giving away the ice cream his mum had bought for him, he’d had a second beating for failing to notice his mark changing colour. It’s supposed to be quite obvious; a tickle, or a tingle, his mum had said. His dad had called it an itch. She tells the ladies from church that none of her children have marks. And he lets it be.

After church, Lestrade goes to the Yard to assemble some uniforms, and together they travel to the Livingstone’s house. They won’t be, as expected, allowed to see Mrs Livingstone. But the butler calls down the maids without complaint, and they stand in a neat row in the hallway. Lestrade thinks on how he’ll manage to find out which one is the sweetheart of the butler, but then he realises there is a red stain on his collar, right under his ear. And only one of the maids has bright red lips.

“Janey, was it?” he asks her, and she nods. He takes her through to the parlor, where they’re been assured of a quiet place to talk, and isn’t surprised when she starts pouring out information with almost no prompting. After that, it’s easy.

Lestrade makes it home on time for supper that evening, happy with another solved case, and immediately he pulls forth a sheet of paper. He’s lonely here sometimes, even with Beth around, but he doesn’t notice it when he thinks of telling Mr Holmes about the way Mrs Livingstone had handed over all her correspondence. He sits, rolls up his sleeves a little. Dips his pen in the ink his wife had gotten him, the Christmas that he had not yet known to be their last.

_ Dear Mr Holmes, _

_ It is with great pleasure that I inform you of the successful conclusion of the Livingstone case. I thank you greatly for your involvement and support, and would appreciate a chance to relay the details of its conclusion, whenever might be convenient for you. _

_ With kind regards, _

_ Gregory Lestrade _

A note comes back the next morning, early enough that Lestrade is still getting dressed. The girl hands it to him, and he cannot help but shine with the good news. “I shan’t be home for dinner tonight,” he tells her, and she gives him a knowing grin. 

After a positively exhausting day of wrangling forms, rowdy officers, and disorderly criminals, Lestrade is grateful for enough time to change into clothes more appropriate for supper, before arriving again at the club. He is brought to the same room, where a table is set, large and heavy with shining glassware and silver.

“Mr Holmes,” he says, shaking the offered hand, and Mr Holmes looks up at him with such obvious joy as Lestrade has never seen on another’s face before. “It is good to see you again, I cannot thank you enough for your help.”

“It was no trouble, I assure you,” Mr Holmes says, “as it did not even require my leaving these rooms.”

“Are they yours then?” Lestrade asks, settling in the chair opposite Mr Holmes’. 

“No, no,” he says, “I rent these as an office space, from which I can comfortably conduct business after the ones at Whitehall have closed. I have rooms nearby, however.”

“I feel as though you must know everything about me,” Lestrade admits, and he cannot resist the urge to fidget with his gloves, damning the way his cheeks heat. “And I wish to draw up with you, I apologise if it comes across as - invasive.”

“Not hardly,” Mr Holmes tells him, the warmth obvious in his voice. Lestrade looks up at him, the glow from the fire brings out the red in his hair, and he wonders whether the other Holmes, his brother, had such a red glow under the right lighting. “Ask anything, although I assure you I may notice things, but I cannot read your thoughts. I have to ask after those, same as anyone.”

A knock interrupts the conversation, and a well-dressed man brings in a tray with covered dishes.

“Thank you, Edwards,” Mr Holmes says. “Set it down please, we’ll let you know when it can be picked up again.” The man - Edwards - leaves with a quick bow, and Mr Holmes motions at the table. He sets his hands on the chair when Lestrade turns to look at the table, but then stops when Lestrade looks back at him.

“Let me help,” Lestrade finds himself saying, and he stands next to Mr Holmes, takes his arm when it’s offered, holds steady as Mr Holmes pushes up to his feet. He makes no noises, which surprises Lestrade, who is used to the groaning of the ladies at church, and especially his mother, who has never let an opportunity to complain about her knees go unmentioned. Until he notices the flush of Mr Holmes’ face, embarrassment? He lets go, smoothing down the fabric of the handsome jacket as he does, and smiles at Mr Holmes as they make their way to the table.

The food is delicious, excellently cooked and delicately plated, well-balanced. Mr Holmes doesn’t eat much, and Lestrade decides not to remark upon it. 

They sit and talk for a long time after, until there is a knock at the door that startles Mr Holmes. “That late,” he seems to be saying to himself. The door opens to show a very young-looking man. “I’ll be out in a minute.” The man nods and closes the door again, and Mr Holmes turns to Lestrade. “I have to go,” he says.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” Lestrade answers, finding that he means it quite sincerely. He helps Mr Holmes into his coat, and closes his own as they continue their conversation. With one hand on the door, Mr Holmes turns back to look at him, places his index finger against his lips. “Ah,” Lestrade laughs, but then he nods.

They walk to the door in silence, and say goodbye with a firm handshake. Lestrade thinks about it the whole way home, opts to walk through the cold instead of taking a cab, just so he can think on the evening longer. 

“Again?” the girl asks, as he ties his cravat for the umpteenth time in the hallway mirror.

“Did I not tell you?” he says, regretting it. There’s no need for her to cook if he won’t be home, and he does try to inform her.

“You did,” she says, “just not about it being your special friend. That’s three times this week?”

He laughs, wanting to deny it and knowing how silly it would be to lie. “You’re a good girl, Beth, but you should mind the cheek!” He shrugs on his coat and puts on his hat as he says it, then opens the door.

“I am thirty-two, havn' been a girl in ages, Mr Lestrade,” she complains, but she’s laughing too, waving him off. She is good to him, Lestrade thinks as he waves down a cab. Stayed after his wife left, for one. Then his mind is back on Mr Holmes. 

One night, when Christmas has come and gone, Mr Holmes suggests sitting in front of the window so they can look out at the park behind the club with a drink after dinner. It’s only just started to be light out late enough to do so. Lestrade drags some chairs over, knows to fetch the decanter and some glasses. “Tell me something,” Mr Holmes says.

“Of course,” Lestrade agrees immediately, and he gets a pleased little laugh for his eagerness.

“Why do you continue to attend church with your mother when you dislike it so?” he asks.

“Because it makes her happy,” Lestrade answers, unsure where this conversation is going until he notices the pained look on Mr Holmes’ face. He might not run about London in an attempt to tame the masses, but he has work just the same, and sometimes it does not go as he wants it to. “Do you wish to be distracted?” He asks, without quite meaning to, but when Mr Holmes nods, he smiles at him. He can do that. “When I was younger,” he starts, “when my dad was still alive, we used to go to the sea every summer.” It seems to help.

The weather gets nice enough that instead of having Mr Holmes’ aid take him home after their dinners, Lestrade walks with him. He finds out where Mr Holmes lives, and meets the Greek interpreter that Watson had written about on the front step one day. He does not get invited up, and does not ask, even when it gets harder to leave each time.

The world feels new, with spring, and Greg feels new with it. He looks in the mirror and sees his bright eyes rather than his graying hair, and his mother comments on how he sits straighter. At his mother’s house one Sunday afternoon, with his sister and her kids and his mum’s neighbour Martin, all sitting around for coffee, his sister’s eldest looks at him with narrowed eyes. “You talk different,” he says, and Greg tries to laugh it off but everyone joins in. “Smarter like,” Greg hears. “ _ Exceedingly _ ,” his niece mocks. It’s hard not to think of how Mr Holmes encourages him to share his thoughts on anything and listens like he matters, when Greg can’t get loud enough to cut off the collective mirth. Eventually the topic changes anyway. 

His mum doesn’t say anything, and Greg thinks that if she knows, she must realise there’s a reason he’s not sharing. His sister isn’t quite as diplomatic. “You’ll do the right thing,” she says, as though it’s a given, before she leaves. And he promises he will.

His fellow Holmes-approved Inspector, Gregson, comments on it as they take dinner together. “You know I met my Julia at twenty-four,” he says. Lestrade does know, he’d been there when they met, after all. “Terrible day,” Gregson adds, quite unnecessarily.

“It was,” Lestrade agrees. She’d nearly died. He imagines he can see the mark on Gregson’s hand shift colour as it had that day, when he’d lifted Mrs Gregson up just as she fainted and carried her to safety.

“She’s older than me,” Gregson says. “And she’d been so stubborn about marrying someone that wasn’t her match that her parents knew not to try and talk her out of marrying me.” He fills up their glasses again with the red wine Lestrade doesn’t like as much as he used to, since he started tasting Mr Holmes’ favourites. “But it was hard, Lestrade, it wasn’t easy for a single second.”

Greg blinks at his food and feels suddenly furious, his skin prickles then aches with the urge to scream. He burns with how much he wants to tell Gregson and everyone else in the world to be quiet already, that the utter  _ unfairness _ of having met but not knowing his soulmate, of knowing what he wants and that he won’t ever get it of - 

“... worth it though,” he hears Gregson say, the ringing in his ears fading as he breathes through the jealous rage in his gut. “When she looks at me, and I feel smart and good,” Gregson says, and all Greg can think of is Mr Holmes' laughing wrinkles around his eyes when the fire is low and the hour is late and how the lines on his face fill with soft shadows that spell joy. “Nothing else matters.”

As summer arrives properly, little things change. The heavy table gets filled with more varied and exciting foods. One night a beautiful strawberry tart sits on a gleaming plate, and Mr Holmes cannot help but look at it. And away again. Greg can’t help but watch. Until he stands up, takes his chair, sets it next to Mr Holmes’ at his end of the table, and puts the plate between them. “Have some,” he urges, and Mr Holmes blinks furiously, his mouth an unhappy line, but before Greg can pull away and apologise, the expression smoothes over. And Mr Holmes shares the tart with him.


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade walks Mr Holmes back to his rooms each time they have dinner, usually twice a week as their schedules permit, even when the weather starts getting colder again. One evening, they are discussing a book Lestrade is hoping to read, when he can’t suppress a hearty shiver. “Apologies,” he laughs, and Mr Holmes looks at him, uncertain about something.

“I have a copy,” he says, “I could give it to you, now or another time?”

“Is it here?” Lestrade asks, and he pushes his hands deeper into his pockets to keep from shivering again. “If yes - please.”

“Come - come on up,” Mr Holmes says. He leads the way, slow on the stairs, a firm grip on the railings, and Lestrade notices for the first time how much he favours his right leg. The umbrella that Mr Holmes carries even when the weather is good enough to make it silly-looking, helps him balance, and when they stand in front of the entryway to his rooms, he looks at Lestrade very seriously. “You may ask,” he says, and then he shows Lestrade in.

The rooms are comfortable, more so even than the office at the club, and Lestrade breathes in and out so deeply that something dislodges in his chest. His eyes burn with it until he blinks it away. “Mr Holmes,” he says, and the lock clicks as Mr Holmes turns the key. When Lestrade looks at him, he is leaning back against the door, his eyes closed. “Are you quite - ”

“Mycroft,” he says.

“Excuse me?” Lestrade takes off his coat when Mr Holmes offers him a hanger, and helps him with his coat too, feeling how heavy and warm it is for a moment before it gets put away. Their hats stand next to each other on the shelf, and it makes Lestrade feel a certain way he can’t name.

“That’s my name, Lestrade,” he says, his voice deep in the quiet rooms, “please use it, while we’re in my home. Can I offer you a drink?”

“Mycroft,” he says it without even thinking of doing it, and the pale eyes he’s been getting used to fix on him, unnerving as they had been in the beginning. “I’m - honoured. Please call me Greg.”

“Gregory?” Mycroft asks, and Greg smiles.

“That’s my father,” he says, and Mycroft seems to understand. “I should love a drink. Would it bother you if I looked around?”

“Not at all,” Mycroft promises, with an amused little smile, and Greg lets his eyes wander over the study they are in, the fire that was dying and has been prodded back to life now, the shelves with books, the darkness outside the windows. There are stacks of things here, interesting prints on the walls, furniture that looks like it is comfortable and loved.

Mycroft brings him his drink, and goes through a stack of books on his desk until he finds the one Greg has been looking for. Greg takes both and sits down happily by the fire, looking up when he hears a little huff to find Mycroft grinning.

“Is this your chair?” he asks, already getting back up.

“No, no,” Mycroft promises, and he sits down where Greg had imagined him to prefer. The largest chair, close enough by the fire, with a little table filled with notes next to it. 

“What then?” Greg can’t help but ask.

“You’ve made yourself right at home,” Mycroft tells him, and it’s true, he shouldn’t have done that. “Don’t think you shouldn’t, I don’t mind at all.”

Greg looks at him, he wouldn’t lie, and relaxes again. “Have you read it?” he asks, about the book, and Mycroft shakes his head.

“What interests you about it?” he asks.

“Well, soulmates,” Greg looks at the title:  _ A Scientific Inquiry Into The Prevalence and Demography of Soul Marks _ . “He counted them.”

“She,” corrects Mycroft. Greg turns the book over. Arthur McMillan. “A nom de plume, of course,” Mycroft elaborates, and Greg can’t help but laugh.

“Of course.” Mycroft rolls his eyes, he looks at ease in a way he rarely does. “I have one, you know?” Greg finds himself suddenly keen to talk about it. No one but his wife and his family had known, but he finds he wants Mr Holmes - Mycroft - to know as well. “I even met them, as a kid. But I don’t remember it, got a sound beating for it and all. Makes me wonder, what I’ve missed, what I could have. I know people without marks can be perfectly happy, but - ” He cuts himself off with a shrug.

“You wonder,” Mycroft finishes for him. That’s it. “Forgive me if - ” Mycroft has another sip of his drink, but his eyes never leave Greg’s. “Them?”

Greg understands the question, should have seen it coming, and decides not to pretend otherwise. “Yes,” he says, thinking that whatever Mycroft does with that information, at least he got to have this time with him.

“Greg,” he says, a little hoarse. His name on those lips, in that voice, it’s surprisingly affecting. “When I was - about nine. I was on holiday with my family, and a boy bumped into Sherlock and I. Sherlock cried and cried and I was hopeless to stop him, but then the boy gave his ice cream to Sherlock, and it worked. And I had this - this warm sensation, right over my heart.” He places his hand on his chest, and Greg can’t bear to breathe for fear that this is some fata morgana, some shimmering illusion that might burst if he moves or speaks. “I’d been told I would find the girl that would light up my mark any day, my whole life. I never told my parents when it happened.”

Greg jerks back into his own mind so suddenly that he spills his drink, all over his trousers, and then he stands and Mr Holmes is looking up at him, so desperate, so hopelessly eager, that he mumbles something and rushes out into the hallway. 

He wants to leave, to feel the cold night air on his face, but as he stares at the door, he realises that it is locked, and he is holding an empty glass in one hand, and the book in the other. He turns around when he hears the floorboards creak. “Here,” Mycroft says, sounding endlessly tired. “I’ve got the key, if you let me I’ll unlock for you.” He sighs. “Please - please put on your coat before you go into the cold.”

Greg looks at him, and then at where their hats are standing next to each other, and the sudden overwhelming heat in his stomach forces its way up until his eyes burn with it, and the only noise he manages to make is a low keening whine. He’s still blocking the door. Mycroft is looking at him, hurt and fragile, and he realises that what he wants more than cold air on his face, is to never leave here again. He bends over to set the book and glass down on the carpeted floor, and then stands up again, takes the key from Mycroft’s hand, returns it to his waistcoat pocket. He reaches out with trembling fingers to trace sloping shoulders, then a soft creased face. Mycroft frowns with concern, until Greg takes one of his hands and places it on his own hip, then all expression fades, leaving his mouth soft and slack. It’s a matter of leaning in, up a little, to press his lips against Mycroft’s. When he leans back to apologise for doing without asking, Mycroft stops him with a squeeze on his hip, and kisses him back. It’s fond, and firm, and sincere. Greg leans back against the wood, and pulls Mycroft in by his elbows, then stops them when he won’t come closer.

“No?” he asks. Mycroft looks at his face and leans in for another kiss, comes willingly when Greg pulls him in again, until his weight rests against Greg, who is safe between the locked door and Mycroft’s warmth. The press of his stomach is comforting, and although Greg cannot reach around him to hold him, he makes do by sliding his hands into the warm space between jacket and waistcoat, causing Mycroft to gasp against his mouth. It’s - heaven, it’s - not ever going to be enough. It’s - Greg sighs into it. “Please,” he begs. And Mycroft seems to know what he needs, for he is drawn away from the door, further into the apartment. They stop in the middle of the hall, and Mycroft steps back. “Mm?” Asks Greg, his balance off from where he was leaning on Mycroft, his eyes sensitive to even the low light spilling out of the study.

“The washroom,” Mycroft explains, nodding at the door they’re in front of, his cheeks bright. “You’ve had three drinks, and it’s been at least four hours since you - ”

Greg can’t help but laugh, and then when it makes hurt flash across Mycroft’s face, he can’t help but reach out to him. “Even if I had to, I doubt that I could,” he says, which is true. He knows what he wants now though. “I’d like to see your mark,” he says, “I’d like to - to touch.”

Mycroft frowns, and sure it’s all moving a bit faster than it would if either of them were a young lady with a reputation to besmirch, but then Mycroft looks down at himself and he frowns harder and  _ that _ won’t do at all.

It’s clear which room is the bedroom, from where Greg knows the windows to be, and he takes Mycroft’s hand, pulls him through, and then adds a log to the dying fire before kissing Mycroft again. “You don’t have to,” he promises. “Would you like to see mine?”

“I - yes,” says Mycroft, and as Greg sheds his jacket, and then his waistcoat, he hangs them neatly to prevent creasing. Which means his back is turned when Greg takes off his shirt, and Greg gets to watch his face when he turns back. He looks hungry, starved. Like Greg’s once-firm chest and shoulders or the greying hair that covers them is a treasure of untold value.

“It’s my elbow,” he says, for lack of words that match the sensation of being looked at like that, and Mycroft stalks closer, takes his arm reverently, and traces the mark. It feels different, warmer somehow, although it is hard to sort through what sensations might be from having his mark touched, and what might be due to the rest of the situation they find themselves in. With an utterly serious expression, Mycroft steps back and starts undressing too. Greg forces himself into motion, to help him with his clothes, and falters at the look of their jackets next to each other, his faded black, Mycroft’s expensive dark grey. He turns back to find Mycroft staring at the floor with determination, as he works his way down the buttons of his shirt, his collar and cuffs already on the bedspread. Greg steps closer, places his hands on Mycroft’s chest over the warm cotton, and takes over. Kisses Mycroft to distract him, and pets the warm pale skin as it is revealed. His mark is bruise-like, indeed almost exactly over his heart, purple and green. “Must’ve hurt,” Greg mumbles, “my elbow.”

Mycroft hums, and without taking his shirt off all the way, slides his hands down Greg’s shoulders, finds his arm, his elbow, presses it against his chest. The heat is indescribable, the feeling makes Greg’s knees weak, and he leans into Mycroft, who loses his balance too. They disconnect. 

“Lie down,” Greg urges, “let’s - let’s lie down.” He helps Mycroft onto the bed, kneeling at his feet to take his shoes off for him, and then walks around to stretch out next to him. It’s a bit awkward, his elbow against Mycroft’s chest, but they lie on their sides facing each other for it, and so he gets to use his other hand to gentle down Mycroft’s side. “You’re alright,” he whispers, to settle them both. The heat this time is as overwhelming as it was the first time, and he understands why his parents told him it was unmistakable. It’s hard to see his own mark, always has been, but Mycroft’s mark shifts colours, and Greg looks up at him in awe. Kisses him soundly. 

It’s Mycroft who breaks away in the end, warm hands on Greg’s back keep him near, but not close enough to kiss anymore. “It is late,” Mycroft says.

“No,” Greg couldn’t - can’t. His breathing speeds up involuntarily, and the warm hands on his back only do so much to steady him. “Please don’t - don’t make me go, it’s the weekend, I can – we don’t need to – ”

Mycroft looks so serious, again, but he nods. Rolls away either way, and sits up with some effort. “Take whatever you need from my wardrobe,” he motions around. “Anything at all, really.”

He is hidden behind a divider in the room, for all the time it takes Greg to find a nightshirt, and the bathroom, and clean up for the night. His breathing is laboured, and Greg refuses to disrupt his so obviously requested privacy. He slides into the bed with a book, and watches Mycroft walk unsteadily to the bathroom, wearing slippers, and a robe that comes down to his ankles. He reads until Mycroft comes back in, and then opens the covers for him. “I can manage,” Mycroft says, and Greg can’t help but smile at him.

“I know,” he promises, and he sets his book away. The lights turn off, and he hears shuffling, and rustling, before he feels the bed dip. He reaches out and finds soft cotton, like the kind he is wearing, hot with Mycroft’s skin. He is panting with exertion. Greg leans in, smells the tooth powder he has used too, soap, and warmth. “Thank you for letting me stay,” he says, and a large hand settles on his hip again. He leans in for a goodnight kiss, and lays mostly on top of Mycroft, whose arms tighten around Greg’s back. 

“I apologise,” Mycroft whispers against him, and Greg shakes no before kissing him further. “I am unaccustomed to - ” he clears his throat.

“Sharing a bed?” Greg doesn’t manage to hide his surprise, even as he tries to be gentle.

“Surely you have realised I am not married,” Mycroft says, his tone sharp in the way Greg finds amusing, “either way, at school it is one thing but after…”

“Ah,” Greg exhales his realisation. “Well, the rules are simple,” he says. “You must simply take care not to wake each other, or to leave the other cold.”

“And what of - before?” Mycroft inhales deeply, then lets it go. “Before falling asleep.”

Greg’s heart squeezes with fondness. He kisses the ridiculous man next to him blindly, finds his mouth regardless. “Whatever you wish to, so long as you stop when asked to stop.”

They settle on their sides, kissing all the while, comfortably close, and - “Stop.” Greg freezes, moves his hand back to Mycroft’s back, instead of where it was trailing down his side, and moves in to kiss him further. He gets a little laugh instead.

“Was I being tested?” he is amused rather than offended, and kisses Mycroft’s nose to allow him the space to answer.

“You’re predictable,” Mycroft says, as if it pleases him. “Kind and respectful.”

They idly kiss until Mycroft starts falling asleep, and Greg turns around to feel his stomach pressed against his back. It is so comforting, enhanced by the arm around his waist, that he drifts off easily.

They don’t dare to risk it again, Greg’s spending the night, after it proves extremely uncomfortable to find a way to leave in the morning without anyone knowing he was there the whole time. He finally sneaks out the back entrance, relieved when no one sees him. Dinners end with a nightcap these days, in Mycroft’s rooms. Which leads to kissing, and occasionally to being held on the sofa. It is - a strange courtship. In its secrecy, but also in how utterly at peace Greg feels. It cannot last, he knows this, and it does not.

One night, as they are sitting together in front of the fire, Greg’s jacket and waistcoat discarded, Mycroft’s waistcoat getting rumpled by Greg’s clinging to it, Greg feels the need to move away. This has happened before, but never in such a way that Mycroft has taken notice. “What?” he asks, when Greg moves. He must see it on Greg’s face, for his mouth opens on a little  _ oh _ .

“Ignore me,” Greg says, “let’s speak of something else, please. I wouldn’t - don’t think I need…” the hand that settles on his thigh makes him whine, and Mycroft pulls away quickly.

“We’ve been having some trouble with the lady in 114F,” he says, and it’s strange enough that Greg looks at him again. He nods with his head. “That’s the one on that side. The apartment is in quite a state, I have seen it. The caretaker fears it will require extensive work.”

Greg doesn’t know what to say to that. “So she’s been evicted?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, and he swallows heavily, his voice is tight. “I will be in want of a new neighbour soon.”

When Greg finally realises what’s being asked of him, he turns to Mycroft to take his hands. “I - Mycroft. I can’t afford to live here. I have - my income isn’t - ” he swallows. Then asks: “would you really wish for me to live next door to you?”

“Extensive enough works,” Mycroft whispers, “that it should not be noticeable if a small doorway is made, between the pantry here and the study there, for example.” Greg bites his lip, he still can’t afford it, but Mycroft seems to read the thought from his face. “I own this building.”

He would be proud about this, if he didn’t want it so desperately. He considers protesting but he knows he cannot hide his true thoughts from Mycroft, so he nods and wraps his arms around his neck, feels him shudder a breath against the sensitive skin by his ear. “Yes,” he whispers. It feels massively, enormously stupid. And just right.

What remains is to tell Beth. “Can you come in here?” he calls, one afternoon. He’s brought a bottle of whiskey home, the kind he gets her for Christmas. Her eyes widen as she sees it, and she sits down heavily opposite him.

“You’re getting married,” she says, “and she doesn’t want me.”

“Almost,” Greg breathes through the tightness in his chest. “I have found my soulmate, quite by accident in the end. He and I wonder if we might count upon your discretion.”

She flutters wet eyelashes at him as she processes his words. Then she unbuttons her sleeve, only has to roll it up a little to show a dark untouched mark. “I’ve known my whole life it won’t be a man, Mr Lestrade,” she says. “If you’ll have me, I’ll have you.”

“You believed me immediately,” Mycroft says, apropos of nothing, one morning as they lie in bed together, Greg with his coffee and a book, Mycroft with tea and the papers.

“Well, yes,” he’d never imagined that Mycroft could make up their being soulmates, “you’ve never lied to me.” His face falls. “What?”

“I believe - I think Sherlock may be alive.” He looks away as he says it, like the secret was weighing on him.

“Oh,” says Greg, unbothered. “Me too. It doesn’t seem like him, does it?”

Mycroft looks at him. “If he is not,” he says, a familiar attempt at lightness in his voice, “then I have sent a significant amount of money to a range of strangers who must all be very confused by now.” Greg laughs, thinking of the way Mycroft goes through the papers with such careful attention, how only the Holmes brothers would think of such a trick.

“Should we tell Watson?”

“No,” Mycroft says, as if he’s thought about this. He probably has. “If it’s dangerous, and it is, then it might come to pass still. It wouldn’t do to let him lose Sherlock twice.”

“Probably go after him,” Greg says, “the great idiot.”

“Aw,” says Beth when she sees him in the kitchen. “Himself’s still out?” 

Greg nods, he got back from church to a note saying only ‘ _ Crisis, am needed. MH _ .’ Beth hangs her coat and sets about to make tea. “How’s your mother?” he asks.

“Oh!” She whirls around like she’s just remembered something, a wide cheeky grin on her face. “First you’ll have to forgive me for something, but you know she doesn’t speak English and she doesn’t know your names so I promise it’s safe.”

“What?”

“Told my mam,” Beth says, looking sorry, at least. “That my gentleman I work for won’t be touchin’ me nowhere since it’s gentle _ men _ now. She was right worried about that.”

Greg can’t help but smile at her. “You’re forgiven,” he promises. Her mother suffers from dementia, it’s unlikely anyone would believe her even if she did tell. 

“Well, so I was washin’ her, and she’s so mean these days, so she’s sittin’ in the tub getting nice warm water poured over her, and she starts askin’ all these questions. I’m busy so I don’t pay much attention but I know better than to not keep talking. So she goes ‘what do they do then?’ with all her judgy meanness, and I tell her oh, mostly they sit in bed and read all the time and you shoulda seen her face!”

Greg laughs heartily with her, it’s true that they’re mostly content to stay in, spend time together where they can. “And then?” he urges, before thanking her for the tea she pours. 

“Well then she goes ‘but what inappropriate things?’ and I couldn’t thinka anything so I told her well, the one walks around barefoot and the other beats him around the ears with slippers for it.”

He can’t help but laugh even harder at that. It’s true, he’s barefoot even now, certain that it won’t give him arthritis or a cold, since it never has before. “Did she give up then?”

“Not at all!” Beth complains, “the whole time she went on about it, thinking we’ve got naked men coming out the cupboards here!” They both laugh so much that they don’t notice Mycroft coming home until he’s standing in the kitchen, still in his outside clothes, holding his umbrella, the fondest smile on his face.

“Hello darling,” Greg tells him, leaning up for a kiss. Beth stands up to fetch Mycroft a cup too, with a saucer and a biscuit, all proper like. She’s not altogether comfortable around him yet, but Greg trusts that it’ll come. Greg gets his kiss, and helps Mycroft out of his coat. Looks around at his life, and thinks it’s good to be home. 


End file.
